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Rodari. Sculptor 


A Story of Pisa 


By Vircinta E. PENNOYER 


Dopce PuBLISHING Company 
Makers or Unique Books at 


4O West Thirteenth Street, New York 





RODARI, SCULPTOR 


A STORY OF PISA 


CHAPTER I 


INGING out in vibrating 
y tones—solemn, clanging, or 
mellowly sweet—the bells 
of Pisa sounded the midday 


Matteo Rodari paused in his 
work, with uplifted head, and 
listened to the throbbing echoes until they 
died away. He laid aside the narrow lap- 
board holding his few tools, then covered 
with a cloth the small block of Carrara 
marble upon which he had spent his morn- 
ing’s effort, and rose to his feet. 

The air of the little shop was hot and close, 
though through the window to the east came 
a faint breeze, stirring the fine particles of 





6 Rodari, Sculptor 


marble-dust upon the narrow sill. Tiny 
drifts of the same white substance rested 
upon the bench, work-table and floor, like a 
thin fall of early wind-blown snow. 

Placed upon shelves protected by sliding 
doors of greenish glass, were rows of small 
replicas in different colored marbles, of Italy’s 
greatest art treasures. Spirited, life-like 
forms by Bologna, Donatello and Cellini 
stood side by side. The exquisite elegance 
of a relief of Mino da Fiesole shouldered an 
ornamented slab from a twelfth century 
tomb, while here and there, dimly seen 
through the dusty glass, was a noble classic 
head, lily-like Corinthian column, or finely 
modeled Greek torso. 

Stiff and weary from hours of sitting, Mat- 
teo blew in little clouds the white powder 
from his hands and sleeves, and stretched 
his arms above his head—seeking relief in 
the motion and change of attitude. His 
rather long face was thin and worn. The 
heavy-lidded eyes were usually half closed 
in dreamy abstraction, living, as he did, ina 





4¢ He untied the worn green apron he wore ”’ 


—Page 7 
[6] 





Rodari, Sculptor 7 


world of his own, from where he seldom 
clearly perceived that which occurred in the 
one of every day about him. 

His slender hands, with their supple, deli- 
cate-nailed fingers of tapering length, and 
the broad brow and shapely head, evidenced 
the artistic temperament, checked, and per- 
haps dominated, by the austerity of the thin- 
lipped, firmly-closed mouth. 

His look sought the half-open door of the 
room leading from the rear of the workshop, 
and he called softly, ‘‘ Corrona.”’ 

Receiving no response, he untied the worn 

green apron he wore, and, throwing it over 
his work-bench, stepped over the threshold 
of the tiny chamber and stood looking about 
him. 
A low bed filled the longest wall space. 
This, with a child’s carved chair, a brass- 
nailed, gaily painted leather trunk, serving 
now as table and bureau, was the only fur- 
niture the little room held, and the small ob- 
jects about spoke but briefly of its occupant, 
so few were they. 


8 Rodari, Sculptor 


Matteo lifted a white marble lion from the 
trunk top and held it contemplatively in the 
palm of his hand. The shop without held 
several finely sculptured specimens of the 
same subject, but this meant to him more 
than them all. A smile came to his eyes 
from the thoughts stirred by the small treas- 
ure, for treasure it was to Corrona, its 
owner, and through his little daughter’s val- 
uation of it his had grown. 

Being in some way defective, he had given 
it to her asa plaything years before. The 
head only, clearly defined; the body and 
limbs but suggested. 

It had troubled Corrona so much, the im- 
prisoned form gazing at her out of its marble 
eyes, seemingly demanding freedom, she 
could not sleep, and had crept into his room 
in the night to beg him, with sobbing breath, 
to “let the lion out just a little while, padre 
mio, his eyes ache so to get out!’’ He 
took the forlorn little figure in his arms, and 
she fell asleep with the reproachful - eyed 
animal chilling her small hand, comforted 





99 


‘¢ It had troubled Coreona so much — she could not sleep 


Page 8 


[gs] 





momari,-Sculptor 9 


by the promise of its liberty, which was 
kept. 

In her imagination it was gifted with won- 
derful powers of transformation. At one 
time it would be hung in a wooden box in 
her window—a_ golden-winged cdnary. 
Then, the feathers would be changed to 
fins, and as a deep-sea fish it would be 
dropped to the bottom of the copper water- 
jar, breaking the tip of its royal marble nose 
one tragic day as it struck the ocean’s metal 
bed. Best of all, placed on her pillow, he 
guarded her at night in his proper form from 
the bad dreams she so feared. 

Matteo sighed, remembering her intense 
pleasure in the possession of something all 
her own, and putting it back in its place, 
turned to seek the owner. 

The Ponte Solferino basked in the full 
glare of the noon sun, its three-arched, lion- 
guarded span repeating itself in a broad band 
of brown shadow upon the muddy water of 
the Arno. 

Before the shop the river ran between the 


10 Rodari, Sculptor 


walled banks, shallow and waveless, with- 
out ripple or breakin the flow. The shores 
were bare of tree or bush or the lower 
growth of rank grass, weeds, or slender 
water plants—a river’s toll for its right of 
way. Giving back to the sky no reflection 
of its blue, only a metallic glitter, it dazzled 
Matteo’s eyes and seemed to him like a 
stream of burning bronze, returning to the 
sun a heat nearly equal to its own. 

This hour of the nooning usually found 
the neighborhood deserted by the passing 
townspeople or straying tourist, and the 
high, flat-faced houses, each side of the nar- 
row river, showed no sign of the busy life 
within their hidden courts, where many arts 
and occupations were followed side by side 
in the small spaces of the poorly lighted 
shops. 

To-day something in the way the sun and 
shade met upon the water beneath the Ponte 
brought to Matteo’s memory, as he stood in 
the narrow doorway of his shop, the days 
when he had first looked upon this spot. 





‘¢ The little figure of his daughter ”’ 
—Page 11 


[10] 





Rodari, Sculptor tt 


How long ago they seemed! Yet the re- 
membrance was as vivid as if they were but 
yesterday—the frail wife and young child, 
the newness of the life, the inquisitive 
strangers, with their prying questions, liv- 
ing about them—with an impatient sigh he 
turned away, trying to free himself from the 
unwelcome memory, and so perceived, for 
the first time, the little figure of his daughter 
seated upon the river wall with her back to 
the Via, not fifty feet from where he stood. 

The low murmur of the water deadened 
the sound of his approaching footsteps, but 
a slight movement of the slender form 
showed that the perfect calm of her dream- 
ing solitude was stirred by his presence. 
She sat in the hot sunshine of the treeless 
Lungarno, her two arms clasping her knees, 
and her small, deer-like head erect, though 
the wide-set eyes were drooped, watching 
the river’s flow. 

In a moment she turned, roused from her 
thoughts by his nearness, and met his slow 
smile and outstretched hand by a loving 


12 Rodari, Scu lbp 


‘‘padre mio!’’ and a delicate color crept 
into her little face as he raised and held 
against his cheek for a moment the small, 
chill hand. 

He stood silently by her side in the white 
light, and the two figures seemed as alone as 
if no city encircled them. 

Matteo Rodari had appeared some years 
before with his small family, and established 
himself in the shop on the Lungarno. The 
near neighbors were eager at first to show 
every kindness, give every aid to the new- 
comers, but they soon found that, though 
the good-will was gratefully acknowledged, 
the strong element of curiosity it contained 
was perceived and left ungratified. They 
could learn but little of the family, save 
that Matteo had been a sculptor of Rome, 
had traveled somewhat, meeting and marry- 
ing his young wife in Sicily, where they 
had lived before coming to Pisa. The 
reason of this northward journey was un- 
known and could not be ascertained, there- 
fore was a matter of much conjecture and 


Mmocart, Sculptor 13 


even suspicion. In time the curiosity gave 
place to newer interests, and the women de- 
cided that the change must have been made 
because of the wife’s failing health. Still, 
the reserve and implied lack of confidence 
chilled all neighborly intercourse or real 
friendliness, and the man and now mother- 
less child were left outside of the intimate 
interests of a little community. 

Matteo soon proved his superior ability in 
his art, and unconsciously aroused as much 
envy as admiration by its exquisite finish 
and accuracy. His shrinking nature and 
lack of business ability prevented his name 
from being of note beyond the city. Onlya 
few fellow artists and the occasionally ap- 
preciative purchaser from other lands knew 
of the faithful work and consummate skill 
put into his reproductions. 

Through their monotony the years passed 
quickly, though to him they were empty of 
alljoy. The work of each day, the satisfac- 
tion in its worth and growing power, alone 
gave him the small measure of content he 


4 #%Rodari,’ S ¢uipeae 


owned, while of the solitary child growing 
by his side he was neglectfully kind, really 
unaware as yet of the depth of her hungry 
little soul, of her patient, uncomplaining 
loneliness. 

Several times of late he had been roused 
from his long reveries by the searching, 
questioning look, surprised in her dark eyes, 
eyes over which the long lashes quickly fell, 
as she became suddenly conscious of her in- 
truding interest, and so withdrew, as one 
caught on the threshold of some forbidden 
chamber, holding within its denied space the 
magnet to all thought and feeling. 

The unmeasured generosity of her love 
touched him vaguely; his slightest notice 
brought such quick response of confident 
content; such eager hands met his careless 
touch, while the young heart gave fully and 
freely of its wealth of trusting love and faith. 

Corrona had long sought to understand his 
varying moods, watching, with wise, think- 
ing eyes, his absorbed face as it was bent 
over his tool. She knew every passing 


Rodari, Sculptor 15 


shade upon it as she knew the form and 
color of the beautiful chapel before their 
door. In the long hours of his silent days 
she felt the certainty of his kindness, just as 
she was sure that the white walls of the 
building, with their fine detail of mosaic and 
lace-like carving, would meet her eyes in the 
morning when she drew aside the curtain 
from her window. Once, in the night, the 
frightening thought had come that the chapel 
had been on its way to the great Basilica, 
but in some way had lost itself by the river 
side, where it now stood, waiting to hear the 
word which would guide it to its compan- 
ions in the wide Piazza del Duomo. 

Springing from her bed, she flew to her 
window and threw open the wooden shut- 
ters, covering her eyes for a fearing moment, 
with the trembling pressure of her childish 
hands, dreading to look, for might not her 
thought have come true? Maybe the dear 
Santa Maria della Spina had been told by 
the night wind the way to the place it had 
been seeking and was gone! 


16 Rodari, Sculptor 

Her joy to see it resting in its place, still 
crowding its small perfection upon the nar- 
row Via Gambacorte, made her drop to her 
knees in a prayer of thankfulness, and sent 
her to the custodi the next morning to beg 
permission to enter before the hour of the 
early service, where she knelt in silent hap- 
piness, her eyes slowly covering every be- 
loved detail of its Gothic beauty, while she 
told her beads with a fervor of faith and 
gratitude until the worshippers entered for 
the early morning mass. 

Corrona always felt the whole city hers, 
and hers alone at this hour, and now to 
share its possession with the beloved padre 
gave her full content, and her face, as she 
leaned it against his arm, spoke of the rarity 
of this moment of companionship and sym- 
pathy of mood,—days at a time passing with 
only a word or two from him to think over, 
as she lay in the dark of her little room at 
night, wondering over his silent ways. 

As they rested now, side by side, they 
faced the western wall of the chapel, and 





‘¢ Made her drop on her knees in a prayer of thankfulness ”’ 


—Page 1 


[16] 





Rodari, Sculptor 17 


their eyes sought the ever-new beauty of the 
small building. 

Against the sky sprang the delicate flame. 
like points of the five pinnacles, with their 
carven saints canopied beneath, at watch 
over the river. Over the two windows 
curved the half circle of the inlaid arches, 
rich with marble mosaic. From these two 
windows at night Corrona sometimes drew 
comfort and companionship as the soft light 
streamed out to her from the candle-lit 
interior. 

The child glanced up at the man’s face, 
and her own lightened as she saw that the 
usual gloom upon it was somewhat lifted 
under the spell of the beauty before them. 
How kind his face was, she thought, as she 
studied it with serious eyes. How good to 
her he always was! And now, to take these 
moments of rest with her in the sunny, open 
air! And she sighed with a contentment 
unusual, 

Suddenly a thought came, flushing the 
thin young face with excitement: Would it 


1% Rodari, Sculptor 


not be a good time to tell him the great 
secret, the many weeks’ old secret, which 
was to prove to him that she was now old 
enough to help him earn the centesimi,— 
could really at last aid in adding to the little 
hoard of brown coins in the brass box on his 
bureau ? She wished to speak of so many, 
many things! Where should she begin ? 
And should she disturb him now? Was ita 
good time ? 

Her childish breast rose and fell in quick- 
ened breathing, and she unconsciously 
stiffened herself for the effort of speech, 
sitting away from the supporting arm, more 
sought than offered, as her companion 
leaned against the wall by her side. 

She pressed her two palms together 
tightly, and shut her eyes, that she might 
the more clearly think of the words to speak. 

Oh, the many things! the many things! 
Where should she begin ? 

Then the doubt cleared away and her re- 
solve framed itself into two softly whispered 
words, ‘‘ mia madre’’; she would ask of the 





‘¢ She leaned against his arm’”’ 


—Page 16 


[18] 





Rodari, Sculptor 19 


beautiful young madre of whom she knew so 
little ; and that little was growing less, bare 
as was the present of all allusion to the dead. 
Matteo never spoke of her, and, although 
Corrona could not have told how the impres- 
sion became so clear, she felt sure that some 
feeling, as strong as his love, colored his 
thought of the madre, standing between him 
and peace. 

Yes, the first words must be of her; and 
she must know what troubled him, why he 
never talked of the beautiful days when she 
was as other children, having a madre of her 
own—her very own! 

He seemed kinder even than usual, and 
no one was passing. Would he listen long 
enough ? 

‘‘Padre,’’ she began, falteringly; then 
meeting his glance, paled a little under the 
swift thought of how her words might drive 
_ away the contentment in his look. 

He stooped slightly, the better to read the 
emotion he saw stirring the depths of her 
black eyes, and, brushing from her forehead 


20 Rodari, Sculptor 


the long hair, raised the little face in his 
palm, studying it. 

‘‘What is it, child? Are you not well? 
I think you need a visit from your Golden 
Lady. Would that please you? It is time 
forhertocome. She said between the ‘Festa 
dello Statuto’ and the ‘Assunzione’ she 
would surely return to Pisa.’’ 

“Oh, padre! /f she would only come!” 
—with a long sigh, partly of anticipation, 
partly in the relief of the moment’s reprieve. 
Then, the self-set task childishly forgotten, 
she added reassuringly, asif doubt had risen, 
twin to the pleasure the idea presented : 

‘* You know you were to make her face in 
the. marble, and she promised to teach me 
things like other girls,’’ and Corrona lost 
herself in imagining the hoped-for arrival. 

How easy it was to recall the first coming 
of ‘‘ The Golden Lady !’’—the wonderful day 
when she had stepped into the little shop, 
where she had been so kind, so interested in © 
all that was about her. Corrona could hear 
now the tones of the low, full voice, the soft 


Rouwari, sculptor a1 


rustle of the silk of her dress sounding, she 
thought, like tiny breaking waves on the 
sands, and she felt again the touch of the 
shining folds of the color of ripe wheat, as 
she stealthily slipped her hand against them, 
standing timid and dumb by the side of the 
gracious visitor, who had praised and admired 
the shelves’ contents enough to satisfy even 
the child’s pride in her father’s work. 

She raised her eyes to his, remembering 
his pleasure that bright day. Could this be 
the same face which had warmed into such 
unusual animation during a discussion he 
had had with his gentle guest? Some lines 
in the old, worn, leather-covered book, al- 
ways open on the work-bench by his side, 
had occasioned it, and Corrona had read the 
admiration and unusual interest in the padre’s 
eyes as he watched the slender hand slowly, 
lingeringly, turning the musty, brownish 
leaves, from which she had read hesitatingly, 
from time to time, a line or phrase, dipping 
into the noble rhythm of the words as a 
bird would skim a mighty river, touching 


22 Rodari, Sculpeoe 


with wing tip the upper current of the 
strong tide. : | 

She had come often to the shop after that, 
‘To practiceher Italian,’’ shelaughingly said, 
and always showed a delicate deference to 
the words and opinions of Matteo, which sat 
upon her fair presence with a crowning grace 
and made the man—hungry for mental com- 
panionship—lift his head with the added 
dignity her approval gave. 

Corrona’s life, also, was the better and 
richer for those visits. Thought and widened 
vision had been the Golden Lady’s gift to 
the lonely little girl, and the story of foreign 
lands and peoples had given the eager brain 
food for many otherwise empty hours. Best 
of all, she had told the child of her mother’s 
birthplace, wonderful Sicily! And told it as 
one who loved the long valleys, the dark, 
high, pine-crowned mountains, with silvery 
streams flowing down their sides like un- 
wound ribbons, and the black lava rocks 
resembling stormy jewels set in the white 
foam of the breakers on the shore. 





‘« She felt again the touch of the shining folds.”’ 


—Page'21 


[22] 





roeaa tj sculptor 23 


The Golden Lady pictured to the entranced 
hearer the green gray of the olive orchards 
covering the lower slopes of the hills, from 
where one could see the irregular line of the 
coast as it pushed its long, jagged, rocky 
fingers, graspingly, far out into the Ionian 
sea, forming, between, bays and inlets, where 
grew such brilliant flowers as no words could 
describe. 

Corrona tried again to recall all she had 
told her of the far-away land. She could 
remember the description of the wonderful 
green growth, the tumble and fall of the long 
sprays of starry jasmine, and of purple grape- 
vines covering the cliff-set shore, meeting 
the sea’s margin even as they stretched their 
delicate green tendrils downwards towards 
the incoming waves. No wonder the dear 
madre had been glad to leave stony Pisa, 
where so little green met the eye—glad to 
go through the beautiful blue of the sky, 
which screened from the people on the earth 
the heaven place, which must be very like 
this wonderful Sicily, where the madre had 
once been a happy girl. 


24 Rodari, Sculptor 


Of that girlhood the child knew a little, and 
by constant reviewing had kept the knowl- 
edge fresh and vivid in her thoughts. The 
little ribboned and belled tambourine, hang- 
ing on the wall in her room, was all that was 
left of those long-ago days of bright youth, 
when the morning and the evening and the 
_ day to come were but hours for merry life out- 
of-doors, for laughter and care-free existence 
within. 

Oh, why, why did her father never speak 
of those days! Never look at the pretty 
tambourine, although Corrona felt sure it 
filled his consciousness whenever he crossed 
the threshold of her room, but she never saw 
him even glance atit. What had happened 
to make those days as great a pain as sorrow 
to recall? She must ask, must know! 
Now ? 

Suddenly grasping his hand with both of 
hers, she raised it to her breast, holding it 
there, while she looked straightly and bravely 
into his eyes—a look of resolution, making 
her childish face old forthe moment. Her 


Rodari, Sculptor 25 


lips trembled a little and tears were ready to 
cloud the clear eyes. 


‘‘ Padre mio,’’ she faltered, ‘‘ tell me of 
my mother; just this once, only once. Did 
she love me very much ?’’ 

The man’s face seemed to harden, to grow 
smaller under her searching, questioning 
glance, and only his silence answered the 
sweet, childish tones, as if he fought for the 
mastery of unseen forces which threatened 
shipwreck of all governed speech. Corrona 
felt as if the hand in hers had become a hand 
of stone, as if his arm would feel like the arm 
of a statue should she touch it, so rigid and 
immovable he stood. She trembled a little, 
and her heart seemed to beat with loud- 
sounding throbs in her breast. 

He was not angry, she thought, oh no, not 
that ; but some quick change had come from 
her words, sweeping him far from her, though 
his hand was still in hers, his eyes yet look- 
ing into her eyes. 

What was it? Oh, what was it, falling 
over him like a dark, dark shadow, as she 


26 Rodari, Sculptor 


had once seen the night cover the deep sea, 
hiding but not stilling the turmoil of its 
stormy waves. 

She waited, drawing long, suppressed 
breaths, growing each instant more afraid of 
the silence —afraid of what it foretold. 

The tall houses on the Lungarno, the 
stones in the Via, the whole wide sky, 
seemed to listen for the long-coming answer. 

‘‘ Padre,’’ she repeated, timidly, struggling 
with her fear and bewilderment courag- 
eously, ‘‘tell me, did the madre feel very 
sorry to go away from her little child—to 
leave me on the earth? Did she love me 
very much ?”’ and she pressed tremblingly 
against her frightened heart the unrespon- 
sive hand, trying to rouse him by the tender 
caress. 

When through stiffened lips he answered, 
his words seemed to ring through her little 
world in loud, brazen tones, beating upon 
the tender heart and brain. ‘‘No, your 
mother loved no one, not even you,”’ he said 
huskily. ‘* She lived forherself alone. She 


mower Sculptor 27 


knew no duty, no truth. She left you tothe 
care of strange women. She left me to— 
to—’’ his voice broke and he threw out his 
arm with a sudden rough movement like one 
pushing aside some restraining barrier, and 
spoke as if to himself, hearing the woes of 
years, as he had lived them, one by one, for- 
getting the listening child, forgetting her 
need of pity, knowing for the moment only 
the tide of bitter memory flooding his 
thoughts. 

The toneless voice went on in shaken, 
struggling words: ‘‘ She came back when no 
more pleasure could be wrung from life—to 
be cared for. She knew she could creep 
under my hand and be safe—be sheltered. 
She played with my heart as she did with 
her own life,—with her soul——”’ 

The words died away in the hurry of the 
panting breath, and through the whirl of his 
emotion he saw vaguely the fascinated stare 
of Corrona’s large eyes, as through a mist, 
and the sight finally pierced the man’s con- 
sciousness and he realized his need of self- 
control. 


28 Rodari, Sculptor 


‘“You are too young to understand,’’ he 
said, looking down upon her with a sudden, 
hard calm, which made her shrink away 
from him as she never had done before— 
shrink as she would have from some dread- 
ful, incurable wound, knowing the slightest 
touch might snap the hold upon the life or 
sanity of the one enduring. 

His hands fell to his sides inertly, and he 
turned from her, not hearing her low, appeal- 
ing cry, or unheeding if it reached his ear. 

It seemed to her as if the figure of an old, 
old man left her side, crossed the narrow 
Via and entered the shop with slow, dragging 
steps; that with slow movement turned and 
shut the door; and Corrona dared not fol- 
low. She sat, stunned, by the change in 
her little world, staring with dazed eyes at 
the closed door, feeling, without understand- 
ing, the barrier of suffering and experience 
set between them—shivering under the bit- 
ter chill of the poverty of which she had 
never dreamt—the poverty of all mother 
love in her short young life. 


mover, Sculptor. 29 


This, then, was the trouble! This dread- 
ful, dreadful thing, and she had made the 
padre speak of it! to her! only Corrona! 
speak of all his sufferings, his unhappy, un- 
happy life. ‘‘Oh, padre mio! Oh, padre 
mio!’’ she moaned, with strangling sobs, 
beating her clasped hands against the tor- 
tured little mouth, ‘‘ forgive your little girl, 
oh, forgive her! Sheis sorry, sorry!’’ and 
all the sunshine was shut out by a storm of 
blinding tears. 


CHAPTER II 


HE Apuan Mountains were 
topped by cumulous mass- 
es of dark blue-gray 
clouds, heaped in a great 
wind-swept ridge, its edge 
touched by orange light, 
luminous, yet threatening. 
High overhead flew a long line of sea birds, 
their wide-spread wings serving but to 
keep them aloft, so swiftly were they 
driven through the upper air by the strong 
breath from the ocean. 

Over Pisa the sunshine still held its clear 
brilliancy, yet from the path of the distant 
storm came a refreshing coolness and the 
scent of rain. 

Up and down the Lungarno Regio Rodari’s 
eyes searched for Corrona’s little igure. He 
had not seen her since the nooning, and now 
it was five o’clock and the heat of the day 
was changing into a coolness he knew pre- 
saged storm. 





30 


Rodari, Sculptor At 


He suddenly realized that her noon break- 
fast was still untouched upon the table, and 
that her frail strength needed immediately 
more sustenance than the roll of bread eaten 
early in the day could give. 

‘«s Where has the child gone?’’ He spoke 
aloud, and for the moment felt some anxiety 
over her absence, though it was not un- 
usual. The scene of the morning had car- 
ried his thoughts far from Pisa, from Cor- 
rona, and the present, and he had hardly 
become aware until now that she, too, must 
have suffered, though like a pale star in the 
black night of his gloomy retrospections, 
her little face had shone all day, freighted 
with its weight of new woe. 

The door of the shop slammed with a 
loud bang, and a flash of white light blazed 
a burning path for an instant, through the 
sombre cloud caps of the far Alps. A sud- 
den swift breeze swept the dust and debris 
of the Via into corners, in scurrying whirls, 
and stirred violently the leaves of the sickly 
plant in the terra-cotta jar on the sill of 


32 Rodari, Sculptor 


Corrona’s window, sending out from its few 
leaves a delicate fragrance, which brought 
to him vividly her sweet gentleness and 
patience. 

He placed the little plane within the win- 
dow and closed the wooden shutters, then 
caught up his cap and hurried out, wonder- 
ing where he should first look for her. 
People were hastening homeward, and the 
sound of their hurrying footsteps, their 
laughter and talk, filled the Via. The 
freshened air, hinting of the nearing storm, 
cooled his face as he hurried over the Ponte 
and turned in his search toward the cathe- 
dral. One or two of the passing towns- 
people spoke or nodded to Matteo, indif- 
ferently, receiving only a brief, half articu- 
lated response. A little boy was being led 
reluctantly along, his broad-faced Italian 
nurse pulling him forward by one plump 
hand while his other grasped the sailor cap 
crowning the wind-blown yellow curls, 
which were swept in a bewildering tangle 
over the laughing, mischievous eyes. She 


momar, sculptor 433 


reproved him sharply and nearly twitched 
him off his feet, when he saucily sang out in 
English to the unheeding Matteo as they 
passed: ‘‘ Hallo, you Mr. Dusty Man! Say, 
ain’t this a dandy wind!”’ 

Reaching the end of the long Via Solferino, 
Matteo stood for a moment looking in all 
directions. 

Before him opened the wide Piazza del 
Duomo, where the surrounding buildings 
seemed to fall away from the wonderful 
group in the center, as if its majesty and 
loveliness had awed these commoner crea- 
tions, and they had drawn back in rever- 
ence from too close an approach to the per- 
fection they neighbored. The white splen- 
dor of the Duomo seemed that of some 
dream-world, and the tall, seven-belled 
campanile dropped as if still faint with the 
long day’s burning rays, though it yet faced 
bravely the clear light of the now setting 
sun. The eight galleries showed every 
detail in delicate, shadowy repetitions of 
their pillared arches upon the inner curved 


34 Rodari, Sculptor 


walls, giving double beauty in the reality 
and its echo of shade. 

Crossing the Via Santa Maria, Rodari 
passed the low baptistery without a glance 
at its perfect marble symmetry, and mounted 
the shallow steps of the Duomo. Across the 
upper step lay Carlo, the whining blind beg- 
gar of the Piazza, sound asleep, flat upon his 
back, his greasy cap tilted over his nose, his 
stubbly chin very much in evidence, and 
every spot and crease upon the worn raiment 
showing distinctly. Matteo stepped lightly 
over one outstretched arm, glad to enter the 
sacred place without the importunate voice 
and tin cup’s begging jingle sounding in his 
ears. 

The opened, green bronze doors were 
warm to his touch from the day’s heat and 
sunshine, and as he let fall again across the 
door space the padded leather curtain, the 
peace and quiet of the great interior met 
his senses restfully, as would the green depth 
of a forest after the glare of a sandy, treeless 
waste. 


m@near, Sculptor 35 


He hurriedly bent his knees before the 
altar near the entrance, murmuring in a per- 
functory manner a short Latin prayer, while 
his heart sank with a sudden foreboding. 

Had he so wounded the childish soul by 
- his blind indifference to her hurt of the morn- 
ing that she had hidden herself away to 
mourn alone. Ah, poverina! He must care 
for her more tenderly after this, give her 
more of his day, teach her many things, poor 
little one, that she might not gather the 
thoughts of the sad past and brood over them, 
and so dim her days as they had dimmed his 
life. 

Had his coming to Pisa, to free himself 
from all association with those who knew of 
the trouble of his youth, been wise, after all ? 
Her kindred would perhaps have done well 
for the child—better than he had done, would 
be able to do at all—being but a man. He 
rose to his feet and stood, a dreaming figure 
of unromantic middle age—but a soul in the 
first throes of a sense of guilt, a conviction 
of duty neglected. 


36 Rodari; Sc uli 


‘“‘ Mea culpa,’’ he murmured, with bowed 
head, and with a sigh his eyes sought the 
mother eyes of Del Vaga’s Virgin, which 
Corrona so loved, as if he wished her 
woman’s soul to hear the confession and 
know his repentance. 

He passed under the oscillating bronze 
lamp, seeming the heart of the whole place 
as it circled in slow movement above his 
head, hanging by the strong chains as it had 
for centuries, suspended from the far, golden 
coffered ceiling of the nave. 

A small choir-boy in scarlet cassock and 
deep laced white cotta lounged down with 
slovenly step from the main altar, carelessly 
carrying back to the choir a huge, vellum- 
leaved, brass-clasped missal. The faint 
enervating scent of incense permeated the 
place, and the red eye of an ever-burning 
silver lamp, hanging in the dimness of a dis- 
tant aisle of the transept, seemed to watch 
Matteo with malevolent expression, as he 
searched, going from one chapel to another 
down the long nave. Reaching again the 


momatis Sculptor 637 


door by which he had entered, he suddenly 
bethought himself of blind Carlo’s known 
affection and friendship for the straying 
child. Stepping through the door he stirred 
with his foot the sleeping man, sending at 
the same time a small coin ringing into the 
tin cup lying by the relaxed hand. 

Carlo scrambled to his feet and struck out 
with his fist, thinking some one was taking 
from him of his small store; .for he was more 
an object of dislike than pity to all about 
him, so surly his nature, his hand being 
against all men—if not opened in his profes- 
sion of Duomo beggar. 

“Chiéla? Ecco, what do you want ?”’ 
he exclaimed angrily, though still half 
asleep; his white, sightless eyes strained 
widely, his head uplifted, in the ceaseless 
effort of the blind to pierce the barrier to 
sight. 

‘<Speak! Whoisit?’’ he growled, ‘‘show 
you’ve a tongue to wag!”’ 

«¢ Have you seen Corrona this afternoon ?”’ 
said Matteo. ‘‘ Has she been here ?’’ 


38 Rodari, Sculptor 


‘Oh, it’s the great Signor Rodari,’’ and 
Carlo bowed low, mockingly. ‘‘And why 
do you search for the child to-day ? Percheé ? 
You are not so often wishing to know where 
she is,’’ and he chuckled maliciously, for he 
enjoyed keeping Matteo waiting for an an- 
swer, detecting the smothered anxiety in 
the questioning tones; and then the unusual 
situation! He, ‘‘blind Carlo,’’ now had 
something another wanted! Usually it was 
the other way. Still—being Corrona—the 
little one! Poverella! 

‘‘No,” he finally grumbled. ‘The child 
has not been here to-day. She has brought 
me no chocolate; like all women, she for- 
gets!’’ and he growled like the animal he 
seemed, so void of all intelligence was his 
heavy fat face, anger alone seeming to find a 
familiar resting-place upon its sallow 
breadth. 

Matteo was turning away, when the rough 
voice began again: 

‘“Va! Seek the child in the fields back of 
the Campo Santo. The little one goes there 


Rodari, Sculptor 39 


often. I could show you the very spot, if I 
would. Good care you take of her, Signor 
Rodari!’’ he continued, sneeringly. ‘ All 
the world knows more of the child than you. 
Fine father you are,’’ and with a slap he 
jammed his old cap still further upon his 
wiry black hair and stooped to grope for the 
stick and cup, badges of his licensed office 
of Duomo mendicant. 

‘Little wealth suffices for the wise!’’ 
exclaimed Matteo, angrily, and he flung a 
soldo at the man, and, with hastening step, 
turned his set, flushed face toward the long, 
low Campo Santo, unaware that Carlo fol- 
lowed, his slow progress guided by the for- 
ward thrust of the tapping batone, as with 
it he essayed each footpace cautiously. 

As Matteo neared the end of the flat, 
outer wall, he heard alow rumble of thunder, 
and the sun dropped, a ball of brazen light, 
below the horizon. He paused for an in- 
stant and sent his voice ringing out in Cor- 
rona’s name, and thought for a listening 
moment that some response met his ear 


40 Rodari, Sculptor 


other than the rush of the strong wind, but 
receiving no reply to a second call he turned 
the angle of the wall and the wide, treeless 
fields north of the buildings were before 
him, sweeping in a long level to the base of 
Monti Pisani, frowning under the gloom of 
the heavy storm clouds in the northern and 
eastern sky. 

A breath of intense relief was sighed forth 
as he saw Corrona. Then his look slowly 
changed until his face grew white and tense 
with a sick despair. 

He moved forward slowly, stumbling un- 
noticingly over two clumsy little shoes and 
an old hat lying upon the grass. Then stood 
still, with clenched hands and teeth, watch- 
ing the scene before him. 

Yet it was only a dancing child and a black 
and white long-bearded goat which so moved 
his emotions. Against the wide, brownish 
green of the meadow’s grassy sweep, under 
the last low light from the sun’s track, these 
two figures were clearly defined, the gray 
wall of the Campo Santo serving as a back- 
ground to the pretty pair. 


meoaari, sculptor 41 

A pale little girl, with wild hair flowing in 
the wind, sweeping one moment about her 
face and shoulders in long black strands, the 
next tossed wide in the quick motions of the 
dance. 

Following the small figure, with awkward 
jumps and clown-like gambols, was the goat, 
a very spirit of stiff, angular agility. 

With lowered head he butted an invisi- 
ble opponent, now sending his hind legs as 
high in the air as he could, now rising upon 
them, his forefeet angled against his hairy 
chest, his head, with its old men’s beard 
and comical, yellow, bead-like eyes turned 
in ridiculous coquetry to one side, as if he 
tried to emulate the airy grace of the little 
dancer before him. 

With slower steps, intricate, yet unruled, 
she came and went to the chime of her rib- 
boned and belled tambourine, shaken in 
varying beat above her head. Her bare 
white feet were seemingly winged, so lightly 
they bore her slender, swaying form, in- 
stinct with beautiful, childish grace, free in 


42 Rodari, Scui peer 


movement, yet full of a delicate dignity, as 
the strong wind swathed the thin blue dress 
about the girlish limbs, or swept it in a circle 
of wide, rippling folds as she twirled in a 
quicker measure. 

The young face was very serious, absorbed 
in the moment’s effort, and the heavy eyes 
appeared as if recent tears had clouded their 
velvety blackness ; while through every mo- 
tion ran a languor, or weakness, which the 
earnest spirit seemed to check or defy. 

Turning to call the animal as he stopped 
to nibble the weedy growth beneath his 
cloven hoofs, she suddenly caught sight of 
the man’s figure. Startled, for a moment 
she hesitated, poised like a bird with thought 
of flight; then she flew to him and threw 
herself upon him, sobbing, laughing, panting 
with the joy and excitement of the moment. 

‘‘Oh, my padre! It is for you, for you, I 
dance! I have learned in the fields. For 
weeks and weeks I have tried and tried each 
day, and wished to tell you, but could not; 
and now, you know!—and can see that I 





‘¢__then she flew to him.’”’ 


—Page 42 


[42] 





momati, Sculptor 43 


may help you, really help to earn the cen- 
tesimi, and you will love me more, dear 
padre ? Speak, and tell your Corrona you 
are glad she canhelp you atlast! ForIcan 
dance before the grand Alberghi and Risto- 
ranti. You know the traveling Inglesi love 
to see the dances of Italy; and Gobbo, my 
goat, is wise, you see! He makes believe to 
dance, too, and they will laugh at him, and 
I will not let myself be afraid; no, padre 
mio. I am sure I will not, for I am old 
now—nine years old. Are you glad ?’’ 

Breathless with the fast coming words, 
trembling with eager anticipation of his ap- 
proval, long dreamed of and desired, the 
floodgates of her usually suppressed speech 
were wide thrown in the happiness of her 
accomplished task. She leaned in confident 
hope against the man’s tall figure, all the 
light of her child’s heart mirrored in the 
shining eyes, touching the little mouth with 
a beautiful smile of pride and joy. 

A harsh hand wrenched roughly from hers 
the tambourine and sent it a flying, musical, 


44 Rodari, Sculptor 


clashing disk, far across the grass. A face, 
with a dark, angry scowl, bent above hers. 
Not her father’s—oh, no, no, not his! And 
the clutching grasp upon her shoulder that 
hurt, that shook her from him, that seemed 
to throw her from him as if contact with 
her was hateful! Was it the padre? This 
man, with pale face of passionate wrath ? 
Was this the kind voice she always knew 
as soft, as slow, in speaking to her. 

‘‘Basta! Basta! Her child!’’ the sharp 
voice said, shudderingly. ‘‘ Not to be mine, 
then, after all, after all! Is my life to be 
twice cursed ? twice? twice?’”’ 

The man stepped back from the reaching 
arms, the lifted, beseeching face. ‘‘ Go 
you! Run off, as she did, to dance over 
all the duties of existence, as she did. She, 
your mother; she, who has left you this 
hateful gift. Oh! Dio! Dio!”’ 

Corrona’s hands went to her aching throat 
to hold the tearing sobs in check, and her 
eyes flinched under the look set upon her 
face. She was not Corrona—no! Some 


Riomari,; ss culptor 45 


one else had taken her place ; Corrona was 
lost,—somewhere,—this little girl had no 
padre. She must belong to the strangely 
speaking man—was it the padre, though ? 
If only the hurting pain in head and heart 
would stop throbbing, maybe she could see, 
could tell 

The strange man went on speaking—the 
man that looked like the padre, but could 
not be he; that spoke, but not as the dear, 
dear padre had ever spoken! “I know 
where this will lead you! I tried to stamp 
out the love of it in her, but death alone took 
it from her. I would rather you were dead. 
Do you hear ?”’ 

‘With a piteous, wailing cry, Corrona 
stopped the dreadful words. ‘‘ Padre, I am 
frightened! I am frightened! What have I 
done to make you speak so? I do not love 
the dance. No, no, it tires me. I only 
learned it to help you. Credimi! Credimi! 
do not look at meso! Notlike that! I am 
your little girl, la figlia—your own little Cor- 
rona! Ah, Santa Maria, help me!”’ 

The small figure swayed slightly, with 





46 Rodari, Sculptor 


outstretched, feeling hands. Dimly shesaw 
the man’s fleeing figure—saw him thrust 
Carlo from his path with the dread strength 
born of the moment’s passion—saw the sky 
in the sullen purpling west come nearer and 
nearer, bringing a great surging darkness in 
high, black waves to cover her, to cover the 
whole world 

The soft grass took Corrona’s face upon 
its coolness, and she knew no more. 

From cloud mass to cloud mass the thun- 
der rolled reverberatingly, unheard by her. 
Unseen, a blinding, rending flash of steely 
lightning pierced the blackness of the stormy 
heavens from east to west, as the rain, in a 
spreading torrent, fell on the waiting city— 
on the blind man, searching untiringly, wan- 
dering up and down and across the wide, 
storm-drenched meadow, his head bent low 
against the rush of wind and water, his stick 
cautiously tapping the wet sod in advance of 
each step, his sightless face set with a fixed 
determination —its purport voiced in the re- 
peated call, incessant and appealing: Cor- 
rona! Corrona! Corronina! 





gb aseq— 


<, 910UI OU MauUy ays pur ‘ssaufoos syr uodn aoxy s 





c 


eUOLIOZ) YOO) sses Jos oy f, ,, 


[46] 





CHAPTER III 


SO aoe SS OME two weeks later two 
K CON NA women stood looking down 
SE : 
g upon Corrona’s face as it 
4) rested upon the pillow, small 
and pale from the parching 
1 fever and delirium of days 
of illness. The exquisite 
orderliness and quiet of the large chamber 
spoke of the trained care affection had pro- 
vided for the sleeping child. 

The light of asunny morning crept through 
the bowed shutters, making a delightful 
green gloom, pleasant to eye and nerve, and 
the black-robed Sister of Mercy, her placid 
face framed in the wide-flaring linen head- 
dress, looked a very spirit of peace and hu- 
man helpfulness, as she moved softly away 
from the bedside and seated herself by the 

window, beginning her litany of prayer 
_ marked by the black beads of her rosary. 

Her companion stooped and placed lightly 
on the pillow’s edge a spray of starry jas- 
47 







48 Rodari, Sculptor 


mine still fresh from the night’s coolness 
and dew. Her hand hovered for a moment 
over the upturned palm of the sleeper, as if 
she found it difficult to wait for her awak- 
ening, so much she longed to take its frail- 
ness in her strong, sustaining clasp. 

In her look was a world of tenderness and 
pity, as she saw the dark hollows beneath — 
the long-lashed lids and the thin, pinched 
lips, slightly parted by the child’s faint 
breath. 

‘* You shall be well, my dearie,’’ she mur- 
mured, ‘‘if I can make you so by love and 
care, and that poor, dull father of yours 
shall be brought to his senses if a woman’s 
tongue can do it,’’ and she turned away 
from the bed with eyes a little misty. All 
her movements were marked by a firm 
strength and delicate surety, and as she 
crossed the sick-room to the nun’s side one 
wondered at the light step, so largely and 
grandly was she formed. 

Ske waited until the moving lips of the 
praying sister were still, then touched her 





‘* Corrona’s face . . . . rested upon the pillow.” 


— Page 47 


[48] 





Rodari, Sculptor 4g 


on the shoulder, and, smiling down into the 
answering brown eyes, asked in a low tone, 
‘‘Has the Signor Rodari been here this 
morning? I have not heard any one enter 
the garden.’’ 

The sister shook her head sorrowfully and 
sighed. ‘‘ No, signorina, not yet.”’ 

Apparently the answer caused her no sur- 
prise. Yet a faint hope must have been 
hidden in her heart that it might have been 
different, for a little frown of distress and 
perplexity furrowed her brow as she stood 
thinking. ‘‘He suffers, my sister,’’ she 
said, presently. ‘I pity him.’’ . 

‘© Si, signorina,’’ placidly responded the 
nun. ‘* Si, Trouble and Joy are sisters. If 
he persists in looking upon the face of one 
only, it is his own deed. The other is al- 
ways to be found near. However, life is not 
completely lived without acquaintance with 
both,’’ and she leaned forward and moved 
the medicine-glass on the table from the 
stray sun ray, which repeated its radiating 
prisms in shimmering waves of purple, 
green and crimson upon the white ceiling. 


50 Rodari, Sculptor 


‘‘ Yes, you are right, I suppose. It is his 
own undoing,’’ the signorina assented; ‘‘ but 
Corrona has been the chief sufferer, I fear,’’ 
and she looked pityingly over to the white- 
curtained bed, the mother-look strong in her 
blue eyes, in the broad breast and beautiful 
arms, which seemed a very cradle of peace 
and refuge. 

The sister slowly passed one brown, 
prayer-worn bead after another through her 
thin fingers. The black and gold crucifix on 
her breast scarcely stirred with her quiet 
breathing, and the signorina felt a sudden 
impatience and irritation over this calm, 
philosophical acceptance of another’s 
trouble. 

‘«‘I know the man is blind to his full duty,”’ 
she said, shortly; ‘‘and the child needs 
more than he gives her, for it amounts to 
but bread and roof.’’ Then she added slowly, 
as if to herself, ‘‘but he means well and is 
‘good’ in the passive, limp fashion of over 
one-half the world.”’ 

The sister raised her shoulders in a little 


‘* He walks with his grief, Signorina—’’ 


[50] 





—Page 


Rodari, Sculptor 51 


shrug, her eyes down drooping upon her 
folded hands. 

‘‘He walks with his grief, signorina, and 
goes on the pilgrimage without incense or 
candle,’’ she softly answered, and the quota- 
tion brought a little relishing smile to curl 
the corners of her thin lips, hinting of the 
humor long suppressed, which for a moment 
looked out also of her narrow eyes in a 
sparkling glance. Then she drew her face 
again into its accustomed placidity. 

‘Si, his grief blinds him to the bloom by 
the wayside. He has much to learn, the 
poor man!”’ 

And, nodding towards the bed, she added 
softly, ‘‘Ebbene! the dear little one can 
teach him. Patience, dear signorina! ’’ 

The gate of the small stone-paved court 
shut softly, and a man’s footstep crossed the 
limited garden space. 

The signorina touched quickly the nun’s 
arm and their eyes met questioningly as they 
listened an anxious moment. 

‘“‘It is the Signor Rodari at last,’’ whis- 


52 Rodari, Sculptor 


pered hurriedly the signorina, with relief in 
her voice. ‘‘I must speak tohim now. He 
must see Corrona as soon as she asks for 
him. She still thinks that dreadful night a 
dream, and must always! Yes, always, my 
sister, always! It is a blessed, heaven-sent 
conviction, and we all must preserve it. 
All!”’ 

The nun pursed her lips and slowly shook 
her head dissentingly, and in consequence 
the signorina affirmed still more positively 
her belief in the right of the intended decep- 
tion. She smiled with friendly defiance into 
the protesting eyes raised to hers, and, softly 
patting the black shoulder, quickly left the 
room, protecting herself and the situation 
by running away from further argument with © 
the good woman, whose scruples mated her 
own, though she meant to ignore, disown 
them. 

As she hurried across the wide upper 
hall of the Pension Inglese and down the 
stone stairs leading to the door of entrance, 
she laughed nervously to herself and ex- 
claimed: 


Romani, sculptor 53 


‘Well! I have kidnapped a child, am 
insisting upon the Mother Church’s aid in a 
deception, and now intend lecturing a refrac- 
tory parent! What next, I wonder?”’ 

Rodari stood at the entrance, uncertainty 
in face and figure. He removed his cap and 
bowed gravely as she approached him 
with outstretched hand of greeting, which 
he took with scarcely hidden surprise and 
some hesitation. 

She interrupted an awkward moment of 
silence by saying in a matter-of-fact tone, 
somewhat overdone: 

‘““You have come to see Corrona? of 
course; yes! She is worlds better this 
morning, and is sleeping like a baby.’’ 

‘“No, signorina,’’ he answered, after a 
moment’s pause, speaking slowly and with 
effort. ‘*I came only to ask of her night, 
and to thank you for your goodness and 
great kindness in caring for her as you have. 
I will take her away as soon as she can be 
moved; in a day or two, probably, it will be 
safe.”’ 


54 Rodari, Sculptor 


The signorina looked into Rodari’s hag- 
gard face for a moment, studying its re- 
pressed feeling; weighing, as she looked, 
her chances of victory in the battle she felt 
was before her. 

She stepped further without the door and 
closed it behind her, and spoke very quietly, 
though her hands, hanging in the folds of 
her dress, opened and shut nervously, and 
she felt suddenly as if she were impersonat- 
ing some character in a play, so dramatic 
the moment seemed to her, and unreal. 

‘No, Signor Matteo; you are mistaken. 
You will not take the child again until you 
feel more justly towards her.’’ 

‘Not! Not take my daughter!’’ He 
stopped, astounded by the emphatic words, 
though they were soft and low in tone. 

‘‘ The child belongs in her own home,’’ he 
continued, half in persuasion, half in asser- 
tion of his right to decide the matter, pushed 
into argument by her confident voice and 
look. 

The manner of his companion was as 


Feodanri, Sculptor 55 


calm as she wished it to appear, as she 
stood quietly facing him, but her heart was 
beating loudly with her own daring. 

‘‘ She belongs there,’’ he repeated, weakly. 

‘“‘ Ah, yes; so she does! Itis truly there 
she should be, ‘at home,’ asyousay. But— 
has she any real home, Signor Matteo?’’ 
And the speaker’s fair skin showed height- 
ened color, as, with a quickly indrawn breath 
over the temerity of her words, she con- 
tinued : ; 

‘‘Do you think so delicate a spirit, so fine 
a frame, can live healthfully under the influ- 
ences of ‘the home’ you have so far given 
Corrona? Can not you realize that you 
have starved her soul? You have made this 
sensitive child live with the shade of your 
unburied dead. Yes, yes, this is so, Signor 
Rodari! For the past is dead, and you have 
put it before the living present—before the 
child. Ah, the pity of it! the pity!’’ And, 
for a moment, the signorina could find no 
voice to continue. ‘‘ She has loved you so 
fully, so generously! ‘She has not even 


56 Rodari, Sculptor 


known her lonely days were caused by the 
lack ofall fathering. For idle loving is not 
enough; one must say their love, do their 
love, think it even; not just let it exist as a 
plant would in a dark cellar, pale and blos- 
somless, without sun and light or care.”’ 

The signorina looked timidly for a fleeting 
instant into the man’s face, feeling as if she 
were stabbing some creature, so cruelly she 
felt her words must wound. She was 
speaking for Corrona’s sake, though, and 
must go on to the end; and she sighed with 
relief to think the task nearly over, and that 
she had dared, for, in spite of her apparent 
bravery, she was avery coward before an- 
other’s anger, and Matteo’s dark eyes looked 
to her as if they could well have expressed 
that emotion. 

He stood bewildered by the rapid words 
and the vista of thought they opened, but 
their earnestness carried him beyond the 
offense he at first felt for the criticism. 

‘‘You are severe, signorina,’’ he quietly 
said. ‘‘ Corrona has been provided for and 


Moaari, sculptor 57 


loved. Nothing she has asked for has been 
denied.’’ 

“‘ Ah, has it not, Signor Rodari? Are you 
Sure, quite sure? What did it mean then, 
the day she quickly put her hand between 
the mallet-driven chisel and the hard mar- 
ble, willingly taking the hurt, seeking it 
even, that your attention might be won for 
a moment, that you might pause for an in- 
stant to notice her, comfort her? I sawher 
standing wistfully at your side as I was 
about to enter the shop. You were too 
absorbed in your work to be aware of her 
presence even. I saw the little martyr- 
hand extended, just to gain your attention, 
and I also saw the shining, happy eyes as 
you took herin yourarms. Ah, the beauti- 
ful little soul!’’ and the speaker turned 
away to hide her trembling lips. 

Rodari’s face was like that of one roused 
suddenly from a deep sleep. He had fol- 
lowed the fast-coming words as they pictured 
Corrona’s affection and loneliness intently, 
and they had shown him to himself as he was, 


58 Rodari, Sculptor 


as he really existed—unloving, thoughtless, 
selfish! And this stately woman had so 
read him; she had begun by respecting him, 
but now! He pressed his hand over his 
eyes, trying to blot out the unlovely, humil- 
iating mental vision, while the hot, red flush 
of mortified vanity stung his face like a 
whip’s lash. What had he said to the child 
the night of the storm, when it seemed to 
him that the past was to be repeated, that in 
the dancing figure of his daughter he saw a 
barren future, a repetition of the days when 
crucified love, tortured pride and bitter loss 
made life a mockery. 

The signorina had sent him word of Cor- 
rona’s condition the night she was found, 
but so great was his own misery he had 
been almost indifferent to the discovery. 
Now he looked back upon his mad selfishness 
with horror and shame; but he yet had no 
wish to see the child; his affection for her 
seemed to be benumbed for the time, though 
his sense of the reality of his unintelligent 
fatherhood grew keener each moment, and 


Rodari, Sculptor 59 


new-born self-distrust was waking his whole 
nature to a consciousness of long error. 
He must do something to dissociate him- 
self from this flood of self-accusation—it 
was unendurable!—gaining strength every 
moment, action might bring relief. But 
what to do? } 

The signorina stood waiting for some ex- 
pression of his thought. Had she said too 
much, spoken too plainly? His face had 
grown dark and set under her words, but 
she read no anger in the glance which finally 
met hers. And as he spoke his look stead- 
ied and grew firm, and she felt that the dig- 
nity of the man came out finely under the 
deep-driven spur of his self-blame. 

‘‘I have been wrong. You are but just,”’ 
he said, earnestly. ‘‘ I have beencruel, and 
to achild. Tell me what to do, signorina! 
To do now, if not too late!”’ 

“Do!’’ she said, quickly, ‘‘ why, only 
one thing. Love her, just love her! She is 
a child and seeks no expression of your 
sense of error. Never allude to it, never 


60.. Rodari, Scutpiroe 


remind her of it; it would hurt her to hear 
it. Children want love, and to know a sure 
faith in those about them. Ah, the trusting 
faith of a little child! And one your own! 
God-given! Think of it, Signor Matteo! 
Put aside the bitter memories you have held 
between you and all the joy she brings you, 
live in to-day’s interests; Corrona is your 
work, your pastime, your crown of life, even 
if she is the child of your wife,—Oh, yes! 
I know /hat subject is not welcome,—know 
what it means to speak of it to you, for all 
through Corrona’s feverish speech of the 
past two weeks she has repeated your words 
—the words you spoke the cruel night of the 
storm. When Carlo came here for me he 
read her need of a woman’s tenderness. 
That was the instinct of affection, the in- 
stinct of love, the seeing that real love gives 
to even the blind! Should yours—her father’s 
—be less keen, less ready ? Having love, it 
is so easy to be happy if one wills to be, and 
it is a child’s right.”’ 

The signorina pushed her bright hair from 


momarise sculptor 61 


her brow a little wearily ; she felt the strain 
of battle, but all was not yet won. 

A voice, speaking from the room above the 
entrance, made them both start. 

The sister was holding the shutters apart 
with her two wide-spread arms, her placid 
face framed in the soft blackness of the win- 
dow’s open space. She smiled down upon 
Matteo with a certain compelling glance as 
if she had no doubt of his following the sug- 
gestion her words carried: 

‘* The child asks for you, Signor Rodari,”’ 
she said; ‘‘ you may come and see her any 
time now; she is strong enough for a little 
talk this morning.’’ And she bowed the 
green shutters as before, giving a quick, 
comprehending nod of encouragement to 
the signorina as she again shut herself within 
the quiet of the sick-room. 

Matteo made no answer; but there was 
no assent in his face, and as he stood turn- 
ing his cap slowly around, his eyes lowered 
upon its revolving brim, the signorina found 
herself suddenly possessed by an indigna 
tion she found difficult to control. 


62 Rodari, Sculptor 


‘‘Is it possible,’’ she said, in a low, hur- 
ried voice, ‘‘ you hesitate to see Corrona? 
Are you going to punish an innocent child ? 
Come, Signor Rodari! Throw away such 
Narrow injustice. Free yourself from the 
unworthy feeling which prompts this ac- 
tion!’’ and the signorina held out an appeal- 
ing hand to Matteo, as he stood fighting 
with long habit, with pride and the man- 
nature, unwilling to bend the knee, though 
repentant. 

He looked at the flushed, earnest face, 
crowned by the soft braids of light-brown 
hair. How was it that her words left no 
anger in his thoughts ? that he—the man 
and father—should accept dictation, criti- 
cism, blame, from a comparative stranger. 

A thousand suggestive impressions of her 
high and pure womanhood swept through 
his thoughts in answer, as would come in 
one breath the perfume of many flowers 
blooming in a sunny summer garden, filling 
the atmosphere with penetrating fragrance. 

The signorina set her lips together to pre- 


Rodari, Sculptor 63 


vent the sigh of discouragement escaping. 
She would make one more effort. 

‘‘It is not the dance you are thinking of? 
Surely, surely, you know she cares nothing 
for it; only to please you was it done at all. 
Oh, gotoher! Let nothing stand between 
youtwo. Begin to-day a new life for you 
both—the first day of years and years of 
close comradeship. Will you not? 

Matteo stepped suddenly within the 
shadow of the doorway where she stood. 

«‘ Signorina,’’ he said, with shaken voice, 
‘‘you are a good woman, a true woman. I 
have known few. Corrona has called you 
her ‘Golden Lady.’ It is a fitting name. 
Yours by right! You have shown me my 
neglected privileges. In the clear truth of 
your words I see myself—-as—I would not. 
But I am grateful—for the child and my- 
self.’”” And reverently and with much of 
old-time chivalry in his manner he bent his 
head low over the strong white hand, mur- 
muring as he raised it to his lips, ‘“‘ Una 
grazia, signorina?’’ Then turned and 


64 Rodari, Sculptor 


mounted the flight of steps leading to Cor- 
rona’s room. 

“Now, don’t be silly, Miss America!’’ 
said the Golden Lady to herself, half laugh- 
ing, while she winked away the tears the 
man’s words had brought to hereyes. ‘It 
is a play, you can be very sure! And the 
stage heroine always has her hand kissed, 
you must know, by admiring vassals. And 
this whole, ridiculous situation is only a 
picturesque, footlight experience from be- 
ginning to end.”’ 

She stepped out into the clear sunshine of 
the garden as the latch of the wall door rat- 
tled under the touch of a fumbling, uncer- 
tain hand. | 

A hard kick from a stout boot propelled by 
the energy of sudden wrath, struck the resist- 
ing barrier, sending it flying open, wide- 
swung upon the creaking rusted hinges. 

Over a large bundle awkwardly held 
against his chest by one spread hand, loomed 
the broad red face of Carlo, flushed with his 
efforts to enter, and the quick, ever-ready 


Roadatri, Sculptor 65 


anger uSual over the least opposition to his 
will. 

He groped for the helpful batone, carried 
under his arm, to feef for the garden walk, 
when the Golden Lady’s step and voice 
made him grasp at his cap, to express in its 
lifting his deference and respect for the 
speaker, from whose generous hand had 
fallen many a lira during the past two weeks. 
He lost for an instant the firm clutch of the 
burden he carried, and down it fell, a cataract 
of linen, cotton, and wool, to the path at his 
feet. 

The Golden Lady laughed aloud at the 
hissing flood of vituperative language he sent 
forth under his breath, as he stooped to 
gather together again the small garments of 
varied shapes and tints comprising Corrona’s 
little wardrobe. 

She beckoned to the amused sister, watch- 
ing from the doorway, to come and aid in 
gathering up the collection, and heard a 
grunt of relief, and received low muttered 
thanks from Carlo, as he left the task to see- 
ing eyes. 


66 Rodari, Sculptom 


‘¢You are a little warm, Signor Carlo, are 
you not ?’’ she asked, her eyes dancing with 
amusement, but her voice innocent of any- 
thing but momentary concern for the com- 
fort of the wrathful messenger. ‘* Will you 
not come to the arbor and rest? I will lead 
you.’’ And she laid a guiding hand on the 
soiled sleeve and tried to turn the man to- 
ward the shady place. 

Embarrassment and pride chased each 
other across his unlovely countenance, but 
he felt a moment’s rare, and in him comical, 
docility under the gentle touch and courte- 
ous thoughtfulness, but the restraint of man- 
ner and speech needful for acceptance, was 
too much for his consideration and he sud- 
denly turned, thrusting into the Golden 
Lady’s hand a small hard package which he 
took from his pocket, saying, as he backed 
and sidled away as fast as he could: ‘* The 
woman at the house sends this to the little 
one. She says the child always keeps it 
with her at night and would like it now.’’ 

Bowing repeatedly, he continued to mum- 


moadati, Sculptor 67 


ble salutations and thanks until the wall 
door was reached, and as he disappeared 
through it an expression of great relief came 
over his face, as he felt himself once more 
outside of the garden and its confusing influ- 
ences. 

The Golden Lady opened the weighty lit- 
tle package, and looked with interest at the 
small carved lion the unwrapping disclosed. 
The white tone of the fine marble was some- 
what dulled from much handling by childish 
fingers, the end of the royal nose was miss- 
ing, otherwise each line was clear cut and 
true, and the whole a little gem of spirited 
modeling. 

If she could only persuade Rodari to do 
more original work! She was confident 
he could win just fame and position as a 
master of his art, if only his ambition could 
be stimulated. 

She smoothed the paper thoughtfully, ab- 
sent-mindedly folding it into a square, then 
rousing herself placed the lion in the center 
of it and raised it in the palm of her hand to 


68 Rodari, Sculptor 


a level with her eyes, where she turned it 
this way and that, enjoying the perfect 
work, and wondering how she could arouse 
the sculptor to a sense of the obligation of 
his undoubted gift. 

‘“Well! Why do you not speak, Sir 
Beast ? and tell me what to say to the 
stupid fellow who can and don’t,’’ she ex- 
claimed, and gave the creature a shake 
which nearly precipitated him to the path 
below, and quite dislodged the paper, which 
fell, a square white mat at her feet. She 
stooped to pick it up; paused, and with 
characteristic quickness and surety of touch 
opened it widely, sank to one knee, and 
there remained a long moment, her glance 
studious!y intent, devouring the crayon 
sketch she discovered on the inner surface— 
the next, she was flying down the garden to 
the arbor, where she astonished the waiting 
sister by entering in a whirlwind of excite- 
ment. 

‘‘Look! Oh! Look! The dear child! 
She has helped after all, and more than she 


Rodari, Sculptor 69 


ever dreamed possible! Do you not see? It 
is Corrona dancing with Gobbo! Look at 
the lovely little face! See how the creature 
presses against her side, reared his might- 
iest, the clever dunce that he is! and here! 
see the sweep of her long hair across his 
horns! and the little, dear, dancing girl 
feet! And the tambourine held so well! 
Rodari saw all this that night! Think of 
it! The artist stronger in him even than 
the man—his sense of this beauty as keen as 
his misery—and he could not refrain from 
sketching this delicious, delicious group! 
Life is complex, my sister,’’ and she sighed 
Over its unsolvable problems. ‘‘I suppose 
you know these black, vicious, ugly lines 
across the whole mean that he intended 
to destroy it. He dared! Look at them! 
wicked things! nearly spoiling the perfect 
conception. Well, we will see if the child’s 
efforts to please him shall go uncrowned 
after all—he shall put this into the purest 
marble at once. Viva! Corrona! Viva!’’ 
and the Golden Lady sat down out of breath 


70 Rodari, Sculpirom 


with her triumphant excitement and rapid 
speech—her eyes deep and shining with 
content. 

The little housemaid was arranging the 
breakfast tray temptingly on the rustic table. 
The sister, only mildly interested in the sig- 
norina’s discovery, seated under the flicker- 
ing shadows of the vine-covered place, was 
a pleasant figure to watch, her unruffled face 
and soft quietness of movement soothing the 
dancing nerves of the Golden Lady. Lean- 
ing her head against the trellised side of the 
arbor with a long sigh, she folded her hands 
in her lap and gave herself up to the restful 
charm of the sunny hour. 

Over the housetop floated a small white 
cloud, astray in the serene blue of the morn- 
ing sky. 

A flock of strong-winged pigeons swept in 
wide circles above the garden, settling finally 
upon the weather-worn statues crowning 
the pillars of the high, environing wall, 
from where, with bright, alert eyes, they 
watched the activity of Gobbo, as he twisted 


Peart. sculptor. 71% 


himself in his long rope and crushed under 
his restless little hoofs the leaves of the 
pungent, low-growing geraniums, vivid in 
brilliant midsummer bloom. 

The balmy air swung to and fro the pen- 
dant green vines and stirred the leaves of the 
tall plane-tree whisperingly. The inarticu- 
late benediction of nature’s giving seemed 
to hallow the moment with a perfect, heart- 
lifting calm. 

The Golden Lady sat suddenly erect and 
stretched toward the sister a hushing hand, 
while she bent her head listeningly, her 
finger on her smiling lips. 

A child’s faint, sweet laughter came 
through the open window of Corrona’s room, 
feeble with physical weakness, but full of 
the rippling bird-like notes of the joy-life 
only youth knows without alloy. 

_ The nun raised the cup of fragrant coffee to 

her mouth, and she smiled across its brim at 
the Golden Lady, and, nodding upward to- 
wards the window, said placidly : 

‘* Ah! Labuona fortuna! Allis well with 


72 Rodari, Sculptor 
the little one. They talktogether. And you 
know, dear signorina, it is written that 
‘Words draw nails from the heart.’ ”’ 





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